Funeral
by McAbbyAddict
Summary: The team attend a funeral. Oneshot, complete. WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH


**Author's note: This was written in response to a suggestion by my beta on one of those nights where the baby just will not sleep (parents, you know the ones lol).**

**This is a oneshot, please don't ask me for another chapter. I have too many WIPs as it is.**

**Many thanks go to my lovely beta, Trina109.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or any of the characters.**

He grumbled to himself as he did a quick mental inventory check and made sure he had some extra ammunition clips. Drug runners. He hated drug runners. They were so stupidly unpredictable. At least the ordinary run of the mill murderers, embezzlers and fraudsters they usually dealt with had some sort of pattern of behaviour. Drug runners were a different story.

...

They'd chased them away from their containers of poison, slowly but surely. Between them, the team had diminished their numbers; he knew he could account for at least two dead drug runners, their bodies left in the maze of shipping containers. The last three were cornered like rats.

He heard more than felt the bullet strike his chest. The impact knocked him backwards. As he collided with the ground, he knew something was wrong. Pain. Searing pain. He'd been expecting a dull ache; a vest stopped the bullet from penetrating, it didn't stop it from hitting you. But this, this was agonising. He couldn't get his breath; he needed to cough, clear his throat, but that made it worse. He could feel something- blood? -trickling from the side of his mouth. That and the look on DiNozzo's face brought feelings of panic. He couldn't breathe! Maybe if he closed his eyes, tried to calm himself, he'd be able to breathe...

...

He fingered the badge attached to his jacket, feeling again the black band stretched across it. There was a feeling of unreality. It had happened so fast...

...

They were pinned down; multiple shooters in multiple places, firing around and over and through a maze of shipping containers. But they were winning. They'd matched the bad guys-drug runners, this time- shot for shot. He'd squeezed off his last round at the last shooter in time to hear his partner make an odd noise and see him fall. He'd stood over his partner and made some smart ass comment as he gasped for breath. It'd taken a moment to realise that McGee wasn't just winded from the impact of a bullet into his vest. These bastards had been loaded with armour piercing rounds, cop killers, and one was shredding McGee's lungs from the inside. It had happened so fast...

...

He refused to cry. Not yet. He'd cry later, in the privacy and security of his apartment, same as he had for Kate, and for Paula, and for Ziva before Somalia. He did not cry- at least not where he could be seen. Right now, there was one last thing he could do for McGee. Friend, partner, brother... Killed in the line of duty. At a nod from Gibbs, he stood. Together, with Palmer and Ducky behind them, they lifted the heavy casket to their shoulders and carried their burden out of the church.

...

He sat in the pew with the rest of his team, stone faced. He'd become adept over the years of not letting anything show that he didn't want to show. But that didn't mean he didn't feel it.

He'd felt relief as the gunfire had finally stopped. As always in a fire fight, it felt like it had gone on forever and only taken a few seconds at the same time. He looked around, checking on his team. They'd become separated in the container yard; he glanced at Ziva, receiving a nod in answer. He could hear DiNozzo off to his left, ragging on McGee as usual. Then he heard the unmistakable edge of panic creep into Tony's voice. He broke cover and ran, Ziva beside him. Something was wrong. By the time they got there, it was too late. McGee was gone.

It was his fault! He could have, should have, pulled his team out. There were so many hiding places, it was impossible to secure the yard with so few people. He should've known the drug runners would have backup secreted in the maze. But he hadn't, and he didn't, and McGee had paid the price. He'd lost another one. Kelly, Kate, Tim... All his kids. All his fault.

Still stone faced, he nodded to DiNozzo. It was time.

...

She stared blankly ahead, her eyes not seeing the altar in front of her. She could hear the priest, but had tuned out his words long before. They offered her no comfort; this was not her faith. She couldn't bring herself to look at the casket, resting on its catafalque in front of the pulpit. She couldn't bring herself to believe McGee was in there.

...

She heard the panic in Tony's voice and bolted, not caring about the possibility of more shooters. As she ran, she tried to tell herself that it was nothing, that McGee had sustained only minor injury. After all, their team was practically indestructible. They'd been blown up, shot at, abducted, tortured and drowned, and they were still alive.

But this time was different. She'd seen the look of death on men's faces before- she'd caused it more times than she cared to remember- and McGee wore that look now. And then he was gone...

...

McGee was gone. Smart, funny, sweet McGee was gone. She had to repeat it to herself many times over to make it seem real to her. She'd cried for him, many times, in the days since his death; and Ziva David was not a woman who cried easily. The congregation rose suddenly, taking her by surprise. She stood slowly, watching as her family carried their lost son to the waiting hearse.

He was gone.

...

He was aware of the moisture on his cheeks, but let it stay. Tears were important; they helped you to grieve and to mourn, and finally to accept the loss of a dear one. Acceptance; he shook his head slightly at the thought. Grieve and mourn, yes, but it wasn't possible for him to accept the loss of McGee. Not yet.

...

The peace of the autopsy room was shattered by the sound of the telephone ringing. He'd looked up from the desk where he sat transcribing his notes, half expecting Palmer to answer it. He vaguely remembered Palmer saying something about lunch, but he'd been engrossed in his notes. He'd lifted the receiver.

"Autopsy."

...

He hung up the phone and bowed his head just as the automatic doors slid open. Dimly he heard Palmer chatting to him about something, but the words washed over him without making any sense. Then a touch on his shoulder had brought him out of his introspection.

"Dr Mallard? Is something wrong?"

He'd lifted his head and looked at his young assistant. "Mr Palmer, can you please go and get Abigail and bring her down here?"

"Certainly doctor, but why?"

"Just fetch her Jimmy, there's a good lad."

...

This wasn't supposed to happen. Jethro and his team were his family; the family he'd wanted in his youth but never been blessed with. You weren't supposed to outlive your children, surrogate as they may be. But now he'd lost another one. Jenny, and Caitlin, and now Timothy.

He glanced at Palmer. The poor lad wasn't taking this well. He'd insisted at assisting at Timothy's autopsy, saying it was the one last service he could do for him. But he'd been wrong, in the end. There was one last thing they could do for him.

At Gibbs' signal, they rose and lifted the casket to their shoulders.

...

This was worse than Kate's death.

Kate had been her friend, yes, but McGee had been more than friend. Even after their fling, years ago now, he'd wormed his way into her life so much that she couldn't imagine it without him. He was her best friend, caring, protective, and always there when she needed him.

And now he was gone.

...

She'd been standing in front of her computer when Palmer entered.

"Hey Jimmy, what's up?"

When he hadn't answered straight away, she'd gotten a little exasperated.

"Palmer, what do you want?"

Then she'd seen the fear in his eyes as he answered.

"Dr Mallard asked me to bring you down to Autopsy."

Slightly numb, anticipating bad news, she'd followed him to the elevator.

...

The lab had been quiet since he was killed. After Kate's death she'd played dirges as a matter of course. But the sound of them had brought back the memory of him labelling them as 'creepy music' so powerfully. The pain of her grief had found her curling up in a corner of her lab, sobbing into Bert's broad back.

...

She wiped her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since the beginning of the service, then rose with the rest of the congregation. She reached out slightly as the coffin passed her, brushing her fingers lightly across the glossy walnut surface.

"Goodbye, Timmy."


End file.
